The Weight of Absence

It’s strange, the weight of absence. How it lingers, unseen but all-encompassing, filling every space that once belonged to the people you loved most. For me, it’s not just one absence—it’s a chorus of them. My mom, my dad, my grandparents. All gone, yet somehow still here, woven into the fabric of everything I am and everything I see.

Losing my mom felt like losing my anchor. She was my constant, my guide, my home. When she left, it was as if the world shifted off its axis. I still reach for her in moments of doubt, instinctively waiting for her soft voice to soothe my worries. But it doesn’t come. Instead, I find myself trying to channel her strength, her resilience—the way she seemed to face everything with a quiet, unshakable grace. I wish I’d told her more often how much I admired her. How much I still do.

My dad’s absence feels different but no less profound. His loss came suddenly, without warning, leaving a jagged hole that time has yet to smooth. He was my protector, my source of unwavering love. I see flashes of him in myself sometimes—in the way I laugh, in my stubborn determination to push forward, even when the odds aren’t in my favor. He would have loved to see how life has unfolded, and I still find myself wishing I could share the good moments with him, just to hear him say he’s proud.

And then there are my grandparents—each loss a thread pulled from the tapestry of my life. My grandmother, with her warmth and wisdom, who always seemed to know the right thing to say. My grandfather, whose quiet strength felt like the roots of a tree that grounded us all. They were the storytellers of my childhood, the keepers of family traditions, the embodiment of unconditional love. Losing them felt like losing a part of my history, a part of myself.

It’s the little things that cut the deepest. The holidays that feel quieter now. The empty chairs at the table. The stories I tell to keep their memories alive, even as my voice catches on the words. The recipes I try to recreate, hoping to capture a taste of the past. The silence where their laughter used to be.

Grief isn’t just sadness—it’s love with nowhere to go. It’s carrying the weight of all the moments we’ll never get back and trying to find a way to move forward anyway. Some days, I feel like I’m drowning in it. Other days, it feels like a bittersweet reminder of just how lucky I was to be loved by them.

There are moments, though, when their presence feels closer. When the smell of a certain flower reminds me of my mom, or a song brings back memories of my dad driving with the windows down. When I catch myself saying something my grandmother used to say, or I see a flicker of my grandfather’s smile in my own reflection. In those moments, I realize they’re not truly gone. They’re still here, in me, in the lessons they taught me, in the love they poured into me.

I don’t think the ache of their absence will ever fully go away. But I carry them with me—in my heart, in my thoughts, in the way I try to live a life that honors them. They were my roots, my foundation, my greatest source of love. And while the loss of them has reshaped me in ways I’m still coming to understand, their love remains, as steady and unshakable as ever.

They are gone, yes. But they are not lost. They are in the way I laugh, the way I love, the way I carry on. They are in the memories that flood my mind, the lessons I pass down, the dreams I chase with them in my heart. And in that, they will always remain.